Frozen
by sprl1199
Summary: Requested to help on a case involving a young, murdered maid in a wealthy household, Sherlock finds himself investigating in the midst of secrets, ghosts, an inconvenient illness, and John.  Sherlock/John pre-slash.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: Frozen

**Author: **sprl1199

**Setting**: BBC Sherlock

**Rating**: PG-13

**Characters/Pairings**: Pre-slash of the John/Sherlock variety. Bits of Sally and Lestrade.

**Genre/Warnings**: Rated for references to violence, vague references to adult content, and ghosts.

**Summary**: Requested to help on a case involving a young, murdered maid in a wealthy household, Sherlock finds himself investigating in the midst of secrets, ghosts, an inconvenient illness, and John.

**Notes**: Written for the Primary Challenge over at sherlockfest where the challenge was to create something autumn or Halloween themed. This story is a modern redux of "The Adventure of the Reigate Squire" with a re-imagining of the ghost from the XXXHolic anime episodes "Temptation" and "Choice" mixed in. AND, to show how very good I am at plagiarism, there's also a shout-out to Poe.

Thanks as always to finangler for beta! Any mistakes and American-isms that remain are entirely my own.

Frozen

_Loneliness is the first thing which God's eye named, not good_. - John Milton

Sherlock's throat tickled.

He tried unobtrusively to clear it, but the smallest vocalization must have escaped, because Sally stopped mid-sentence and frowned at him fiercely.

"I'm sorry, is something about a girl dead at twenty-four _funny _to you?"

"Of course not," Sherlock responded calmly, glad that his typical rumbling baritone didn't easily betray the slight hoarseness of voice that had been irritatingly present for the past couple of days. Though that she interpreted it as a stifled laugh was unfortunate. Typical, but unfortunate.

"I'm simply wondering when you're going to get to the _point _of this little rendezvous."

Under the table, John kicked him unobtrusively in the shin. At Sherlock's glare, he took a sip of his coffee to hide what was almost certainly the small smile he would adopt whenever he was afforded the opportunity to provide feedback on Sherlock's issues with diplomacy.

Bastard.

Refusing to be disciplined, Sherlock ignored him and leaned back in the café's booth to regard Sergeant Donovan coolly. Her mouth had twisted at his caustic response, and she closed her eyes as she took an obvious moment to master herself. When she opened them again, she was as professional and detached as Sherlock had ever seen her.

He wondered if she'd been taking lessons from Lestrade.

"The _point_," the Sergeant continued, "is that Lestrade wants you on the Hampstead murder."

Sherlock made an impatient noise. "Well that was obvious, or else you wouldn't have called us here. But what about this case makes DI Lestrade think I need to be involved? Nothing you've related thus far has sounded remotely interesting."

Sally glared. "_Interesting_? You're a sick bast-"

"Given the affluent neighborhood the murder took place in," Sherlock overrode her, speaking blandly in order to annoy, "I'd imagine there's political pressure to get this crime solved quickly and quietly."

Sally didn't answer, but the clench of her fingers around her chai tea was confirmation enough. Sherlock leaned forward to allow himself to loom over her slightly while he made his point, though he imagined the effect was somewhat ruined by the nauseatingly cheerful setting of Java the Hut.

"I don't concern myself with politics," he said lowly and precisely, narrowing his eyes menacingly. "I have no interest in being a puppet of the British government."

"You just don't want to do anything that your brother might potentially approve of," John piped up genially. Sherlock snapped his glare to him, but it clearly had no effect if the calm blue eyes and leisurely sip of coffee were to be believed. If anything he looked amused, and Sherlock spared a brief, longing thought to the days where he was able to intimidate everyone he came into contact with.

Sally made a disgusted sound. "There are _two _of you? God help us."

Sherlock ignored her. "What _is _interesting is that Lestrade sent you," he said, smirking inwardly as Sally went stone faced. "Especially given what he knows about our interactions. Interactions which-I'd like to point out-are entirely the result of your insipid attempts to discredit both myself and my methods." He gracefully moved his leg before John could kick it again.

"Clearly Lestrade is under the impression that having you personally come to me for assistance would engage my hubris enough to agree to assist on this case."

The Sergeant was clenching her teeth, nostrils flaring slightly. Beside him, John was at last looking vaguely concerned.

Sherlock leaned back in the booth and allowed a triumphant grin to skirt his lips.

"So go ahead," he said mockingly. "Ask."

Sally's eyes went poisonous with rage as she opened her mouth to respond.

* * *

"It serves you right, you know," John said back at the flat, as Sherlock was bemoaning the chai stain on his shirt. He was only grateful she had missed his coat.

"So, are you going to help then?" John continued.

Sherlock looked up from where he had been wiping futilely at his shirt front. "Of course I'm going to help. Lestrade asked for me personally, and far be it for me to refuse to lend the police my skills when they're clearly out of their depth."

The look John shot him was so blatantly incredulous that he felt his lips trying to twitch up in a smile.

"Additionally, it is my understanding that the heating bill is due next week, and if we don't want it cut off entirely, we'll need to pay it in full."

They had been using the heat very sparingly over the last few weeks, electing instead to huddle under mounds of blankets, but the bill was still climbing. The flat was typically only a few degrees warmer than the chill autumn temperatures outside. It drove Mrs. Hudson to distraction.

"And finally," Sherlock went on, "we are almost out of tea and HobNobs. Such a situation must be remedied immediately."

The HobNobs were John's favorite, and the smile Sherlock got in response to his casual statement was blinding.

He turned away before John could see what was no doubt a horribly besotted expression on his face, and-to make doubly sure it wasn't visible-began to pull his shirt off over his head, muttering about the nauseating scent of cardamom and cloves.

Behind him, he heard John make a choked noise before excusing himself and leaving the room abruptly, the door slamming behind him.

Sherlock paused in surprise at the unexpected departure, head still inside the folds of blue fabric. He had rather been looking forward to discussing the particulars of the case with John over boxes of Chinese or take away from whichever restaurant had taken their fancy for the week. To have him retire so suddenly was…disappointing.

The spicy blend of the chai again assaulted his nostrils, and he sneezed. Twice.

Bother.

* * *

The particulars of the case were thus:

Billie Kirwan, age 24, was a maid at the Hampstead estate of the Cunninghams, a long-lived, wealthy family whose fortunes had been tied to trade and shipping since the nineteenth century. Employed in the household for two years, she had been found two days before at the bottom of the stately staircase that descended to the foyer: neck broken and head bludgeoned by a currently unidentified heavy object. Per the inquest, it was a fall from a height consistent with the stairs that led to her death.

She had no lovers of which her employers were aware, and her only living relative was an ailing mother who lived outside of Ipswich. She had been an average student and had made no attempt to pursue further education. She had come with good references from similar positions held in her adolescence, and her only known hobby was a very regular attendance at the nearby cinema, presumably to view romantic comedies.

All of this was contained in the file Sergeant Donovan had provided to Sherlock, details meticulously noted and facts of interest liberally underlined and circled with a purple pen.

It was rubbish of course, though there were points of interest in the crime scene photos: something almost striking in the tableaux of the body sprawled across the Persian rug, the heavy framed portraits standing as sentinels and the golden panes of light from the Tiffany lamps casting a sense of melodrama over the scene. It looked, rather, like the cover of a luridly romantic thriller novel.

The body had been found by the elderly Mrs. Edith Cunningham when she had descended to the kitchens for a cup of milk to combat insomnia at approximately 1:30 a.m. The male family members-Edith's son Edgar and her grandson Alec-reported working extremely late at the office of the Cunningham shipping business that night and didn't return home until notified of the incident.

The final member of the household, Edgar's wife Delia, had presumably been sleeping. From several notations made in the transcripts of the interviews taken at the scene-including one in that same purple pen stating "Loony!"-Sherlock gathered that Delia Cunningham was potentially suffering from either psychosis or early onset dementia.

There were no signs of forced entry and no unidentified footprints, fingerprints, fibers, or compounds on or around the body. A nearby traffic camera that covered the front gate showed no one entering or leaving the property from the direction of the street after sunset.

The theory had been put forth-by Alec Cunningham, Sherlock noted-that the death of Billie Kirwan was an unfortunate accident resulting from the maid surprising a pair or more of burglars. There had been a rash of such burglaries in the area recently. All had been in stately, historic homes such as the one belonging to the Cunninghams, and the youngest Cunningham had adamantly insisted that this was yet another offense attributable to these same criminals, albeit one with a more heinous outcome.

Sally appeared to agree with this assessment, and much of the file was made up of copies of the case reports of these other incidents: five in total within the last four months, all perpetrated when the home owners were absent.

Sherlock glanced briefly at the reports, and then promptly threw the file folder aside, using an underhand throw with considerable torque in the wrist of which he was fairly proud. The folder skidded across the floor and slipped out of view beneath the couch.

"Sherlock!" John chastised, bending to rescue the file. "That's not how you'd want someone treating your evidence, now is it?"

"Bah," Sherlock dismissed the notion. "Those files are useless until we've seen the crime scene and questioned the residents ourselves. It would surprise me utterly if there _weren't _something the initial investigation missed. And attributing this to the ring of burglars that is supposedly flitting about shows a thoroughly uncreative mind, which-I suppose-is no surprise, given that Sally is the lead investigator."

John ignored him as he flipped through the crime reports. "What makes you think they're unrelated? Five burglaries in wealthy neighborhoods seems like a pattern you should take into account."

"In the previous incidents, the burglars ensured no one was present before entering."

"Perhaps they thought the house was empty and simply made a mistake."

"In this case they managed to miss the presence of three individuals. That's rather more than a 'simple mistake,' wouldn't you agree?"

John looked at him, brow furrowed in that way that never failed to make Sherlock want to smooth it with his thumb. He refrained.

"Perhaps the burglars were desperate for something at the house and couldn't afford to wait," John responded, somewhat obstinately in Sherlock's opinion. "Shouldn't you consider every piece of available evidence?"

"Very well," Sherlock said begrudgingly, waving his hand toward the files. "Was there any pattern in the items taken in the burglaries?"

John squinted at the reports. "Well, paintings mostly. Some heirloom jewelry. Whatever cash was handy. A man named Pirie lost his antique bust of Nefertiti from his library and a large ruby that was hidden in his bedroom safe."

He flipped to another report. "In the case of the Actons', only the study was ransacked, and the thieves came away with a volume of Homer, two plated candlesticks, a letter weight, an oak barometer, and a ball of twine."

"How remarkable," Sherlock said absently, mind already jumping ahead. He echoed it by jumping to his feet with alacrity, ready to join the hunt.

Unfortunately, springing to his feet resulted in the tickle in his throat at last escaping its confines in the form of a short, dry cough. He did his best to play it off as though he were merely clearing his throat, but he could see John wasn't taken in.

The doctor peered at him suspiciously, brow once again furrowed. "How long has that been going on?"

"A day or two," Sherlock said airily. "It's nothing to bother about. We have a crime scene to investigate. Come!"

John didn't move except to cross his arms and raise his eyebrow as he considered the situation. "Cough syrup," he said at last. "You'll take cough syrup before we go just to be safe. You won't astound anyone with your deductive monologues if you cough up a lung in the middle of one."

"I do not monologue," Sherlock said in offended tones. "And I'm hardly to the point of 'coughing up a lung,' as you put it."

John hummed noncommittally. "You would keep working even if you were in the final throes of acute tuberculosis."

"Now you're simply being dramatic."

Seeing John wasn't going to relent, he gave a theatrical sigh of surrender and turned to climb the stairs to John's room. "Fine," he said mulishly. "But I'm using your stock."

He smiled as John snorted behind his back. "Like you have any of your own."

* * *

Cough syrup taken and promise to disclose any additional symptoms extracted, they arrived at the front of the Cunningham estate.

It was a huge, dark structure-Baroque in appearance-that was set well back from the road. A wall of the same dark stone ran the length of the property and reinforced the air of intense privacy. Even the sound from the bustle on the busy street the house was situated on seemed to stop at the property line.

Which, Sherlock thought, was excellent, in that it would hopefully also stop the tortured sounds of a violin being played by a fiddler standing just a bit down the road.

The man saw his (pained) glance and misconstrued it as an invitation to walk closer. He was dressed in layered, rather dated clothing, all in various shades of brown and a wide brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes. Sherlock was prepared to pass him by entirely when he noted the area around the fiddler's violin case gave indications of the man's frequent presence on that particular stretch of pavement.

The fiddler skipped a little in time to the melody he was playing as he approached and brought the tune to a merciful finish as he stopped in front of them, bowing theatrically as he did so.

"Good afternoon, gents," he said, accent plied on thickly and grin rakish. "Fancy a tune? Perhaps something to lift your spirits on such a frigid day?"

"Hmm," Sherlock said noncommittally. "What would lift our spirits is any information you could provide us about that residence there."

The man looked nonplussed for a moment until John helpfully gestured toward the Cunningham's property.

He grinned when he realized the residence in question. "Ahh, fancy a ghost story do you?"

"Ghost story?" John echoed.

"The estate is haunted, see?" He leaned closer to the duo, breath fetid and tattered coat smelling of mold. Sherlock stepped back immediately, and noted-with amusement-that John stood his ground, locking his knees out of a no doubt rigorously entrenched sense of manners.

The fiddler went on: "Back in 1840, it was. A woman and her little girl were found brutally murdered in that house. They was alone in a small room on the top floor that was locked from the inside with only a single key, but somehow the woman, a maid herself if I recall, had her head torn nearly off. And her poor little girl was strangled and then stuffed in the chimney."

"That's terrible," John said, clearly meaning it. Then because it was obviously expected he asked, "Was the murderer ever caught?"

The fiddler grinned fiercely, a bard caught up in weaving a tale for his audience of one. "That he was not, sirs, which is the most tragic piece of all. The police at the time could no more figure out how the murderer got in and out of the locked room than they could deduce who the devil it was."

He leaned closer still and dropped his voice. "And the devil it may very well have been."

Drama finished, he stepped back and resumed a more conversational tone. "There's those that say the entire place is haunted. It was haunted then, and it's more haunted now, what with the ghosts of those two tragic victims and now this third lass floating about. If I was you gentlemen, I'd stay well clear of the house and the family what lives there."

Sherlock at last found something of interest in the man's tale. "Oh? What do you know about the Cunninghams?"

The fiddler wrinkled his face with distaste. "Nasty pieces of work, the lot of them. Particularly the old man. I've heard stories from servants in that house-former ones, mind you-that make my teeth curl."

"I doubt the accuracy of that statement, but I comprehend your implied meaning," Sherlock responded dryly. "What specifically did you hear?"

For the first time since accosting them, the man fell quiet. Giving them a long, considering look, he smiled slyly and averted his eyes, as though embarrassed.

"Well, now, I'm just a lowly musician, aren't I? All I have to my name is the clothes on my back, my fiddle, and the words in my mouth, as it were."

Sherlock raised his eyebrow. "You have a flat in Barking, a woman who lives with you, and at least two children," he said bluntly. The man gaped at him, completely shocked. "Nonetheless, we'll give you 20 pounds if your information proves useful as well as entertaining."

"Err, yes," the man said, clearly thrown for a loop. He rallied quickly, all trace of the entertainer gone in the face of potential profit. "I heard from a friend of mine-he used to work there doing deliveries and such before they sacked him-that Old Man Cunningham is a bit free with the female employees of the household, if you take my meaning. Not that it's an uncommon situation, mind, but Cunningham is worse than most. Won't take no for an answer and has no qualms about threatening anyone who would potentially bring charges."

"Threaten how?" Sherlock demanded.

The fiddler shrugged, attention caught by a group of tourists ambling in their direction. "Eh, through the use of money. He implies that he has influential friends in influential places, all of whom would be happy to ruin a body's life on his say-so. Says he has the police in his pocket."

He looked back at them and put his hand out expectantly. Sherlock handed him the promised amount but did not immediately release it.

"Anything else?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.

"The son, Alec. He's as ill-tempered as his father, from what I've heard. But get a few drinks in 'im, and he'll bend your ear. Rumor is that business isn't going as well for the company as they'd like you to believe. Course," here he smiled again, "I'm just a lowly fiddler, now, aren't I?"

Sherlock released the bill, and the man slid it into his coat pocket. He resumed his jaunty playing as he zeroed in on the tourists.

"Inside, immediately," Sherlock grated out. "That man is a menace to the musically inclined."

John laughed but hurried after him down the drive all the same. "Really? I thought his playing sounded a bit like yours."

He received a withering glare in return.

* * *

Sally had beaten them to the house, which Sherlock found fairly impressive, given that he hadn't notified anyone that he was coming.

She was in the study perched primly on an over stuffed settee, a delicate tea cup-already gone cold judging by the lack of steam-held carefully steady in her hand. She looked unusually nervous.

Across from her sat a pair of women. The first, whom Sherlock took to be Edith Cunningham, was large-boned and harsh looking, with gray hair pulled back into a tight, intricate bun. Her thin lips were pressed down even further in disapproval, either from her conversation with Sally or from the situation in general. Sherlock was betting on the latter.

The second woman was middle-aged and very frail, with watery blue eyes that darted vacantly about the room as she sipped from what appeared to be an empty tea cup. Presumably Delia, addled wife of Edgar and mother to Alec. She started when Sherlock entered the room and fled through a second door into what was presumably the parlor. No one made any move to stop her.

"Mm, these must be your colleagues, Sergeant Donovan," Edith Cunningham said. Her gaze was cool and assessing.

"Yes, ma'am," Sally replied with a forced smile that came nowhere close to meeting her eyes. "This is one of our consultants, Sherlock Holmes, and his colleague, Dr. John Watson."

As John exchanged the requisite polite greetings, Sherlock explored the room, taking no notice of Sally's pointed glare. He had elected to keep his coat upon entering the house, as there was a chill that caused a shiver to rove up and down his spine, and he jammed his hands deep into its pockets as he perused the bookshelves. He gathered from the conversation that Alec and Edgar Cunningham were out at the office, though Alec was planning on arriving home shortly to answer any outstanding questions about the night in question.

"Sherlock," Sally gritted out, voice choking slightly over the use of his first name. "Won't you join us? I was just updating Mrs. Cunningham about the investigation to date."

Sherlock took another half a minute to pull down a book and examine it (to make it clear to Sally that she should in no way get into the habit of directing him) before seating himself in a musty smelling, upholstered chair with flourish.

The dust billowed up by his movements made his nose twitch, but Sally's presence compelled him to hold in the sneeze this time.

Before Sally could begin the chit-chat anew, he jumped in.

"You found the body, correct?" he asked Mrs. Cunningham abruptly.

She raised an imperious eyebrow. "Correct."

"At what time?"

"Shortly after 1:30 in the morning." She paused meaningfully. "I believe I have already told the police anything of relevance that I know."

"I'm certain you told the police everything they deemed relevant, though if they managed to extract every fact of substance, I would be most surprised."

John jumped in. "It would help us to hear it from you directly, madam," he said soothingly, shooting Sherlock a quelling glance that he immediately chose to ignore.

Mrs. Cunningham appeared mollified, though Sherlock could see that Sally was scowling into her tea cup.

"Very well," Mrs. Cunningham said with dignity. "Ask your questions."

"You told the police that you had come downstairs at that time for a glass of milk to help you sleep. Had you been awake for much time prior to discovering the body?"

"I was in my bedroom reading," she stated as though he had implied something offensive.

"All night?"

"From approximately 9:00 when I retired to my room until I discovered Miss Kirwan."

"Was your light on?" Sherlock asked.

"Certainly," she said with a raised eyebrow. "It would have been difficult to read otherwise."

"And what room is yours?"

"I fail to see the point of these questions, detective," she said impatiently.

"I was simply wondering, madam, if the light from your bedroom would have been visible to any burglars attempting to make entry. Any light, even a reading lamp, should have alerted them to the fact that there were people in residence."

Mrs. Cunningham paused. "There were periods during the night when I turned off my lamp in an attempt to fall asleep."

"And were you successful?"

"No," she said narrowing her eyes. "That was why I felt compelled to seek a warm beverage."

"Did you hear anything during the night? Any unusual sounds?"

"Certainly not. I would have alerted the police had I any idea that something was amiss."

"Did you, then, hear the sounds of Miss Kirwan moving about the house? Given that she was fully dressed and found in the foyer, she had most likely been up and about the entire night."

Mrs. Cunningham did not answer immediately, and for the first time since he had entered the room, she looked at Sherlock with something besides lightly concealed disdain.

"I did doze occasionally," she said at last. "It is possible I may have missed the sounds of Miss Kirwan with the burglars during one such occasion. I am regretful that I am unable to be of more help."

Sally spoke up for the first time during the interview, leaning forward on the settee as she realized Mrs. Cunningham's implication. "You believe Billie Kirwan may have been in league with them?"

"I would not be surprised," Mrs. Cunningham answered stiffly. "She was a furtive girl, always to be found skulking around corners. Edgar hired her against my better judgment."

"Yes," Sherlock took over again. "I understand that Mr. Cunningham was responsible for most of the hiring. Of the female staff, at least."

Mrs. Cunningham's face froze in sudden, cold anger. "What exactly are you implying, sir?"

"Shut up, Sherlock," John said quietly out of the corner of his mouth.

"I am implying that your son was known to carry on inappropriate relationships with the female staff in the household, potentially non-consensual ones," he said evenly, eyes trained on Mrs. Cunningham's face for any sign of guilt or shame.

There were none. Or if there were, they were covered by that same stony rage that had appeared when he first mentioned her son.

She stood. "Sergeant Donovan, I would speak with your supervisor immediately. This interview is over." And with that she stalked from the room, her back rigidly straight and her cane giving her more the appearance of a queen than an invalid.

"Argh!" Sally's sound of disgust and frustration was loud in the study. "I am going to kill you! Do you realize how much you just jeopardized this case? I know you get off on uncovering dirty, sordid little secrets, but I had _hoped _you'd keep it in check if Lestrade asked you to!"

"Rumors of sexual impropriety toward household staff are important to the investigation," Sherlock argued, his voice clipped and precise. "If you didn't want me to _investigate_, then you shouldn't have asked for my help."

Sally's fingers clenched and relaxed spasmodically, no doubt itching to wring his neck. She reached for her mobile instead, face set in disgust as she cycled through her contacts. "Get out of my sight before I do something you'll regret with a fireplace poker."

As Sherlock strode toward the door she called after him. "Better yet, get out of the house completely. I don't need you annoying anyone else while I clean up the mess you made."

"Fine," he said through clenched teeth, propelling himself toward and then through the front door at a rapid pace.

John had followed him, though he stopped on the front stoop looking uncertainly back inside.

"I think I should be on hand to defend you, if it comes to that," he said wryly.

Sherlock bristled. "I am perfectly capable of defending myself," he said irritably.

"Hmmm," John hummed noncommittally, pulling out his own mobile, no doubt in a bid to reach Lestrade himself. Then he looked up at Sherlock, frowning. "Go sit in a café or something to cool off for a bit. Someplace warm. You don't need to be walking about in this weather."

Without waiting on Sherlock's response he turned and walked back indoors, closing the door behind him properly.

"What I don't need, is a nursemaid," he said to the door.

There was a café down the street that he had noticed as they came into the neighborhood. Flipping his collar up against the wind, he resolutely turned and started walking the opposite direction.

* * *

It was on his third pass up and down the pavement that he noticed the small, walled park with the rusted gate. On a whim, he pushed it open and walked inside.

Inside it was completely empty of people and even lonelier for the deserted playground equipment and benches scattered among bare trees and browned grass. The wind blew harder for a moment, an icy finger down the back of his neck, and he hunched himself deeper into his coat, ferociously ordering himself not to shiver.

The sky was the color of steel. The solid cover of clouds should have felt suffocating in its closeness, but the overall impression of the scene was one of intense loneliness.

Dried vines of long-dead ivy clung tenaciously to the fence around the small park: boxing out the signs of life and habitation that tried to press in around it. Though there were houses and shops only a few metres away, it felt removed.

He walked slowly along the path, carelessly kicking at piles of leaves that his feet came into contact with. He briefly entertained the idea of a spin about the merry-go-round when he was suddenly and wholly startled.

"Whatever are you doing there?" came a voice from behind him. He spun rapidly, heart jumping into his throat at the completely unexpected utterance, to see a woman sitting calmly on one of the park benches.

"Thinking," he replied belatedly in a brusque voice, heartbeat slowing as his body processed that he was in no danger here.

"Well, perhaps you should sit down. It wouldn't do for over stimulation of your thinking processes to drive you to injury," the woman said, sounding amused.

She looked to be in her fifties but had aged extremely well, with only the smallest of wrinkles around her eyes and mouth betraying her. Her eyes were a cloudy grey reminiscent of storm clouds, her hair a similar shade. Against her pale skin the effect was striking. She gave an impression of something washed out, wan and delicate, like an old photograph. But for all that, she was beautiful.

Without consciously thinking about it, Sherlock found himself sitting down beside her on the park bench.

Her hair was pulled up in an elegant bun and held in place with a hair pin topped with a deep blue marble. It stood out vividly in the gray scene, and Sherlock's eye couldn't help but be drawn to it. It tugged at his memory, though he was unable to pinpoint exactly why.

She looked so profoundly sad, and it tugged something inside of him.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked. "This is hardly the type of weather to be enjoying a park in."

Her small smile at his statement telegraphed her recognition of its irony, but she did not call him on it.

"I enjoy this time of year," she said quietly.

"I see very little about it that can be categorized as enjoyable."

"I find it peaceful," she responded, smiling slightly.

The wind again cut through Sherlock's coat, and he shivered slightly. His companion did not appear to notice the cold.

"I don't want to intrude on your solitude," he said, preparing to rise.

Her hand, as delicate and fine boned as his own, settled on his wrist, gentle as a mother's. Her fingers were shockingly chilled, and he automatically cupped his hands around hers to warm them. For a moment, a sense of something electric seemed to pass between them.

"Stay with me awhile," she said, peering up at him with her sad eyes. "I find my time here peaceful, but it is also so lonely. I would welcome your company."

Something about the shape of her eyes pulled something in Sherlock's memory much as her hair ornament did, and he found himself settling once again on the bench.

"I can only stay for a short time," he said. His voice came out apologetic though he had been aiming for severe.

She only smiled at him once before turning to stare out at the empty park and removing her hand, leaving the area she had touched even colder: a small point of intense chill that seemed to diffuse itself throughout his body. Sherlock resisted the urge to chafe his hands together as the warmth seemed to suddenly leech out of him.

They sat together in peaceful silence.


	2. Chapter 2

"Where have you been?" John rushed him as he once again entered the Cunningham house an hour later. "I've been calling you for half an hour."

"I was at the park cooling off as you suggested," Sherlock replied. "I saw the car in the drive. I take it the young Mr. Cunningham has now arrived home. Where is he?"

John ignored him. "You've been outside this entire time?" he asked, horrified. "Sherlock, it's freezing, and you're ill! You can't sit outside in this weather! Do you have any self-preservation instincts at all?"

"I am not ill," Sherlock said shortly, though he realized suddenly that he was feeling rather poorly.

"Additionally, I have a murder investigation to attend to, if you would be so good as to remove yourself from the doorway." John didn't move.

"You look pale," he said instead, peering at him suspiciously.

"I'm always pale," Sherlock retorted.

"Well, paler than usual." John amended. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"I had no idea that when I agreed to be your flatmate I'd be getting a mother as well as financial security," Sherlock said evenly, narrowing his eyes to make it clear to John that this line of conversation was over. "However did I get so fortunate?"

John rolled his eyes. "Alright, you're clearly fine. You'll let me know if that changes."

It was plainly an order rather than a request, a bit of John's military past making itself known, and Sherlock stifled a smile.

He waved his hand dismissively. "You have my assurances that you will be the very first person I notify. Now, let's get back to the murder, shall we?"

John sighed in resignation. "Lestrade smoothed things over by insisting that your grating personality is an unfortunate but necessary side effect of your brilliance. Alec Cunningham is waiting for you in the library to answer any questions, but do at least try to keep things civil this time. Lestrade is starting to sound a bit…frayed. I gather he's been required to make frequent reports about the progress of the investigation to his superiors."

"It's character building. Now can we go?"

John bowed him ironically through the doorway. "As you command."

Sherlock smirked. "Indeed."

* * *

Alec Cunningham was in his early twenties, though it was clear from his dress and habit of leaning against the mantle in a languorous manner that he would rather be taken for both older and world-weary. Sally was in the room as well, her aggressive stance making it very apparent that she was performing the role of Sherlock's chaperone for the immediate future.

Like his grandmother, he dutifully repeated the information he had given to the police during the initial interview:

He and his father had both been working late at their office the night of the murder and had not returned until approximately 2:00 a.m. upon receiving a call from Edith. They had arrived after the police were already on the scene.

Yes, they were at the office and in each other's presence the entire night.

_No_, there was no one else to corroborate that as the other employees-not beset by the many responsibilities of management-had departed at the usual time of 6:00 p.m.

The interview continued in this vein until Sherlock alluded to the rumors of impending financial ruin that he had learned from the fiddler.

Alec flushed a deep, blotchy red. "That is preposterous! Cunningham Shipping and Exports has never been more profitable."

"Perhaps," Sherlock said sedately, "but profitability isn't the same thing as financial solvency. It is my understanding that your company is facing several unhappy creditors." He had researched the company briefly on his mobile while walking back from the park. The information had not been difficult to come by, but the glance Alec threw him was akin to panic.

"Those are rumors that have been started by immoral individuals at the behest our competitors. They are baseless and offensive," he said firmly. Too firmly, to Sherlock's mind. Sweat was beginning to bead on his temples.

"They are also not pertinent to the investigation at hand," Sally said, attempting to no doubt minimize the chance of more complaints to Lestrade about Sherlock's lack of tact. Alec calmed immediately at her intervention.

"Are there any more questions?" he asked, once again adopting the weary tone of one much put upon.

"Yes," John surprisingly jumped in. "Which room did Miss Kirwan stay in?"

The young man's eyebrows rose in mild surprise, but he answered immediately. "She had a small room on the fourth floor in the northeast corner of the house. Now is that all?"

"Yes, we're done," Sherlock said bluntly, ignoring the meaningful look John was sending him. He whirled toward the door, John following closely.

"Thank you for your time, sir," he heard Donovan say politely as she handed Alec her card. "If you think of anything else that may be useful in the investigation, please call me."

"Where are you going?" John asked, sounding annoyed as he struggled to keep up with the rapid pace Sherlock was setting.

"I'm going to explore the grounds," he replied tersely, walking even more quickly to override the objection he was certain was about to come. He was beginning to feel frenetic and antsy, as though fevered, though his skin remained cool to the touch, and he found himself shivering frequently.

"And not another word about the temperature. I am not an invalid, and it is crucial to the investigation."

He heard John swearing slightly as he hurried after him.

* * *

It took another hour to conduct a cursory examination of the grounds surrounding the house for the footprints of any fleeing burglars.

There were no footprints to be found, which did not surprise Sherlock in the slightest. As he explained to John during their walk-his voice rather breathless, though thankfully John did not appear to notice-there were far too many intriguing motives presented by the dysfunctional Cunningham family to eliminate them as suspects, despite what the police would prefer.

As they walked around the back of the house, Sherlock saw John looking up to the top story where a small window was placed near the chimney. He looked discomfited.

"I doubt the Devil would be living in a small corner room in Hampstead," Sherlock said conversationally.

John glared at him. "I am not afraid of the Devil," he said. "But the fact remains that a woman and her young daughter were murdered in that room in 1841, and the police never discovered the culprit. They never even discovered how it was accomplished: the room was locked from the inside, and there was no access through the window because of the height of the house."

At Sherlock's arch look he flushed slightly, but he didn't look away. "You're not the only one with a smart phone. I looked it up in the newspaper archives," he defended. "Anything that happened in that house could be germane to our case."

Sherlock snorted. "I won't deny the importance of thorough research, but in this instance you are wasting your time. A 150 year old double murder case has no bearing on our present investigation."

"Both victims were female maids in their early twenties."

"Most maids in this area are female, and it is my understanding that all women are in their early 20s at one point or another."

"Both victims were killed by brutal physical violence."

"Miss Kirwan's death was the result of a broken neck from a fall down the stairs. Without the fall, it is unlikely the blow to the head would have killed her," Sherlock reminded him. "Though the outcome may be termed brutal, the physical violence to her person was minimal."

John looked contemplative, but not convinced. "They could still be related, Sherlock. Two unsolved murders in the same house in an area not prone to crime is more than a coincidence."

"How do you think they're related then?"

"I'm...not sure. Perhaps there's a secret the Cunningham family has kept for generations that they don't want revealed. Or perhaps there's an item of value rumored to be hidden inside the house somewhere. Or maybe there's a secret passage."

"Secret passage?" Sherlock asked with amusement. "Have you been reading gothic romances again?"

John refused to be baited. "The door to the room the woman and her daughter were murdered in was locked from the inside, and there was no other key. How else do you account for the murderer coming and going without being seen? Unless you suddenly want to come down on the side of the Devil as the perpetrator."

"Obviously the murderer must have entered through the window."

"On the fourth floor?"

"Perhaps an orangutan did it," Sherlock said dismissively. "The point is, at the moment it doesn't matter how they were murdered, because Billie Kirwan was murdered in a completely different way, in a completely different room, and in a completely different century. Do try to keep your mind on the matter at hand if you are capable of focusing."

"Fine," John said coldly, stalking back to the front of the house as they completed their circuit.

The sun was beginning to set, and the air smelled of snow: that sharp, crisp scent with an undertone of ozone that, once inhaled, seemed to steal all the warmth from one's body. Sherlock watched his friend's retreating back and felt a chill settle more firmly into his chest. He coughed, the sound swallowed by the darkening air.

* * *

They shared a cab back to the flat, but it was a quiet journey, with Sherlock mulling over the case and John staring out of the window at the night sky.

When they arrived back at Baker Street, Sherlock half expected John to herd him into the kitchen and insist he eat something, but instead he made vaugue statements about wanting to enjoy the night air (an obvious fabrication) and disappeared down the pavement. The small ball of ice that had settled in Sherlock's chest felt even heavier the moment he was out of sight, and he was abruptly completely fatigued.

Hauling himself up the stairs took a tremendous effort, and he collapsed on his bed fully clothed, coat and scarf still wrapped securely around him. The cold he seemed unable to escape drove him to kick off his shoes and burrow beneath the blankets. He slept, his body shivering occasionally but not waking.

His dreams were full of snowflakes and a woman's sweet voice singing a lullaby, though he did not remember the lyrics upon waking.

The sun was only beginning to lighten the sky when he rose. He changed his shirt (quickly, then immediately rewrapped himself in his coat) and splashed water on his face in a nod to hygiene and then ran to the stairs.

John was clearly still sleeping, the door to his room closed as Sherlock paused to stick a note upon it.

**Gone to Cunningham estate. Meet me when convenient. SH**

On an impulse he added: **Will examine victim's room for possible clues to motive and points of entry.**

He left quickly before he could change his mind and cross through it.

* * *

Businesses were beginning to open their doors for the day as he arrived in Hampstead. He would have told himself that the Cunningham family was certainly asleep and that this was his reason for continuing past the house, but he made it a point to never lie to himself.

She was already sitting on the bench when he arrived back at the park.

She smiled at him warmly when he sat down beside her, before turning her eyes once again to the empty playground equipment. She was now draped in a white shawl that she held protectively about her body, though her expression didn't show her to be cold. It was obviously an expensive item: well made and the fibers expertly woven.

They sat in silence for a time before she spoke.

"Have you known loss, young man?" she asked. Her gaze was still trained on a vacant swing set, and-though her face was calm-Sherlock could see that her hands were clutched tightly together beneath her shawl.

"Who did you lose?" he asked bluntly instead of answering her question. It was the sort of inappropriate question John would have winced at, but the woman didn't react other than for a pained crinkling of the skin around her eyes. She took a moment to answer.

"My son," she said at last. It was an answer he was expecting. "It was a long time ago. I imagine he would have been almost your age, had he lived past childhood."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said. The words sounded hollow, as they always did when he attempted to portray sympathy for the tragedies of those wholly unconnected to himself, though he was surprised to find that he meant it. Not for the death of a boy he had never met, but for the indelible scar it had left on the woman beside him. There was something about her that roused his sympathy, as little invoked as it was.

"Loss is a cruel emotion," she continued, eyes still trained fixedly on the playground. "It doesn't fade with time, no matter what they would have you believe." She didn't specify who 'they' were, but Sherlock could guess.

She continued. "I believe that no matter how many years pass, loss cuts just as sharply as the first day you felt it. Like a knife that sharpens itself anew with every memory."

There were tears clinging to her eyelashes, though none fell down her cheeks, and Sherlock automatically looked away for a moment, uncomfortable with her obvious though thankfully understated grief.

She turned to face him suddenly, and he was struck anew with the sensation of familiarity.

"Having you here with me, listening to my memories, blunts the ache." Her smile was deep and true, lighting her face for the first time since Sherlock had met her. "Thank you."

Sherlock didn't answer, but reached out and took her hand. Her shawl was incredibly soft where it brushed across his fingers, and cold enough that he felt a chill travel up his arm from where it touched him: a brief, sharp feeling almost of pain that then settled into a soft ache that was easily overlooked. Like woven icicles.

* * *

By the time he arrived back at the Cunningham estate, John was already there, and-judging from his body language-very agitated.

He was standing outside the front door and lowered his phone when he saw Sherlock enter through the gate, an expression of intense relief on his face.

"You complete idiot! Where were you?" John said with feeling. The warmth Sherlock felt at the realization that he'd been forgiven for the argument yesterday was as unexpected as it was lovely.

"Why are you smiling like that? I thought you were kidnapped, you ungrateful sod." Sherlock realized that he was wearing a grin that could only be described in the most charitable of terms as 'goofy' and quickly composed his face.

"I was looking for quiet to mull over the case," Sherlock said, knowing better than to mention yet another hour spent out of doors.

"Well, don't disappear on me again," John said. "Next time you run off without answering your phone, I'm calling your brother."

Sherlock's mouth made a moue of distaste. "Threats don't become you, John," he said, walking inside. It occurred to him that he hadn't received any missed call notifications in the park, but he dismissed the thought for the moment in order to concentrate fully on the matter at hand.

Whatever rejoinder John had was lost as Delia, Edgar's weak-minded wife, suddenly appeared in front of them in the foyer.

Her pale blue eyes were red-rimmed and wide as she stared up at them from a surprisingly diminutive height. Her hair was in disarray, and she was wrapped in a robin's egg blue dressing gown.

"The specters," she whispered at them urgently. "There are specters in the chimney. When night falls, they whisper."

"Madam, are you alright?" John asked solicitously. "Do you need us to call for someone? Should we call your mother in law?"

She shook her head violently, turning her head either way as far as she could in an exaggerated gesture. "_No_! She's their confidante!"

"The specter's confidante you mean?" Sherlock questioned dryly. John shot him a look of disapproval before turning back to the distraught woman.

"Mrs. Cunningham," he began, clearly meaning to sooth her, before she interrupted him abruptly.

"You must escape this house while you can! Before you die too! They'll kill you!"

"Mrs. Cunningham, do you know something about the night Billie died?" Sherlock asked, tone suddenly serious at the scent of a potential witness, addled or not.

"It was the ghost!" she said in a high-pitched, strangled voice. "The ghost of the maid who was murdered in the chimney! She cursed this family for its failure to protect her child, and now she's come for us!"

"I see," Sherlock said losing interest. There was no witness to be found here. "Perhaps you should call for a priest. I understand this is their realm of expertise." Turning from her he walked purposefully up the stairs. "Was it the northeast corner?" he called back to John.

John was busy trying to calm the distressed woman and did not answer beyond a somewhat irritated shout of Sherlock's name.

* * *

Billie Kirwan's room was small, as rooms in historical buildings invariably are, but surprisingly homey. She had decorated the walls with cutouts from various entertainment magazines, betraying an infatuation with several prominent actors.

The bed was neatly made, two plush toy cats perched in the center. The sight made Sherlock unaccountably melancholy, and he turned his attention to the window. There was a view of the street if one stood pressed against the wall, and he briefly considered the theory Mrs. Cunningham had stated that Billie Kirwan had been in league with the burglars who had been deemed responsible for her death.

He pulled out his mobile to confirm the weather of the night in question, choosing to ignore the rattle in his chest when he breathed that had been present since he woke that morning. He noted clinically that his fingers were trembling slightly.

Suddenly his hand was covered by another: tanner and wider than his own, fingers blunt and callused. John.

"I think that's enough for now," John said slowly. "You shouldn't be exerting yourself. You'll make yourself even worse. Although," for a moment his face went lost and confused, "you shouldn't have gotten so much worse so quickly, even with your walks outside. It doesn't make sense"

At his expression, Sherlock wanted nothing more than to sweep him into his arms and assure him that everything would turn out alright, and there was no need to worry. But he made it a rule to never indulge in empty platitudes. Instead he scowled. "In case you didn't notice, there's a murder investigation on. I can't exactly stop for tea. Unless you'd prefer for that poor girl's murder to go unsolved."

It was an obvious attempt at manipulation, but John didn't react. His gaze on Sherlock was steady and serious, and Sherlock felt his heart turn over once, hard, in his chest.

"A compromise then. I'll hold onto this and do any texting or research you ask me to. And you'll stop to rest and eat-and I do mean more than tea and nicotine patches-at least twice a day," John said calmly, slowly drawing the phone out of Sherlock's grasp. Sherlock was too caught up in the easy cadence of his voice to stop him.

"I fail to see how that is in any way a compromise," he said after a moment, mouth strangely dry.

John smiled the warm smile that utilized the whole of his face. "I keep you from killing yourself, and in return you get a chance to astound the police with your brilliance in the face of all obstacles."

"I suppose Sally could be construed as an obstacle, yes."

John ignored him, but Sherlock could see the amused slant of his mouth. "Did you find anything then?" he asked as he examined the room, following much the same path that Sherlock had.

"Nothing of consequence."

John came to a stop in front of the fireplace, grate closed and draped with brightly colored scarves, as Miss Kirwan had clearly favored a small electric space heater near the head of the bed.

"When they investigated the murder here in the 1840s, several of the investigators reported hearing whispers and moans around the fireplace," John said in a deceptively casual tone. "That's when the initial reports of haunting began."

Sherlock wasn't fooled by the nonchalant approach to the subject, but he didn't want to have yet another fight over a hundred year old murder. "Why are you so determined for me to pursue this line of investigation? You cannot actually believe that a ghost is to blame for Miss Kirwan's murder."

"No, of course not," John said. "It's not that. It's..." Then he stopped, biting his lip slightly (Sherlock told himself firmly that he did not pay any attention to the gesture beyond using it to gauge John's thought process).

"It's just," John continued slowly. "It's just that I don't want you to come across something you've never seen before...never considered, and be caught unawares."

Sherlock scoffed. "Please. I am rarely if ever surprised. I make it a habit of calculating probable outcomes at all times and in all encounters."

"I'm sure you do, but there are aspects of life, of people that you don't understand. No, no-" He held up a hand to forestall Sherlock's rebuttal. "You know you don't. And that's normal. No one can know everything, despite protestations to the contrary." This was clearly aimed at Sherlock specifically, if the ironic twist of John's mouth was anything to go by.

"I know how confident you are, and I honestly think it's necessary for the work you do. But it never pays to be overconfident. Who's to say there's not a force or entity somewhere out in the world that at the moment is deemed impossible?"

"There are more things under Heaven, you mean?" Sherlock asked dryly.

John's set expression didn't change, and Sherlock felt a slight whisper of unease. He looked so…worried.

"I just don't want you to get hurt," John finished lamely, giving an abortive shrug with his shoulder.

"I am more than capable of looking after myself," Sherlock said dismissively. "Though your concern is appreciated."

"I promise to be careful," he added in an attempt to remove the anxious expression from his friend's face.

"I doubt you know the meaning of the word," John sighed, face almost sad for a moment. Though then he smiled slyly. "Perhaps I should have Lestrade put a tracker on you. Then at least we'd know where to find you when you get in over your head."

"A waste of resources," Sherlock said immediately. "Given my height, few things are capable of extending over my head."

He considered John's laugh to be a victory.

* * *

John departed to obtain some take away as part of their agreement after telling Sherlock in no uncertain terms that he was not to leave the property under any circumstances without John there to make certain he didn't work himself into a fever. Sherlock found the entire conversation excessively melodramatic, but he couldn't help but be touched by John's concern for his welfare. It had been a very long time since anyone had put such energy into worrying about him.

Sally corralled him before he could enter the library. Through the open doorway he could see Edgar Cunningham pacing on front of the fire, body language nervous.

"Look," Sally said belligerently. "You've already managed to annoy or terrorize three of the four members of the Cunningham family. I'm sure you'd love to manage a clean sweep, but do me a favor and refrain this time. Every time you manage to offend someone, it's Lestrade who gets his ear bent about it, and you owe him better than that."

Sherlock frowned at her, the attempt to direct his actions rankling as always. "I have a job to do, Sergeant. I will do it in the best way I see fit. I'm sorry if DI Lestrade is discomforted because of it, but there is a murderer to catch, and I am not going to waste my time coddling a suspect."

"Mr. Cunningham is not a suspect. _None _of the Cunninghams are suspects. This is a case of a burglary gone awry, not one of your grand conspiracies."

Sherlock ignored her in favor of striding into the library and immediately hailing the pacing man.

"Mr. Cunningham, were you having an affair with Billie Kirwan?"

Behind him, he heard Sally groan as Edgar Cunningham went dark with anger.

"What?" he exclaimed. "Where do you get off asking something like that? That is outrageous!"

"If you don't answer, I will take it as a yes."

"I assure you that my relationship with Miss Kirwan was completely professional. She was in the employ of this household. That is all. Why would you ask something so slanderous?"

Sherlock didn't bother to respond. "You were at the office alone with your son the night of the murder from 6:00 p.m. until approximately 2:00 a.m., is that correct?"

"I already bloody well told you so!"

"What were you doing there?"

"Business."

"What specifically were you working on?"

"What concern is it of yours?"

"I assure you, Mr. Cunningham, that I am simply trying to ascertain the details of the night in question. What business were you and your son engaged in that kept you for eight hours at the office that night?"

Mr. Cunningham hesitated slightly. "Alec and I often stay late in the office. It wasn't so unusual."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"We were compiling a report of all shipments the company was responsible for over the last quarter. It was a periodic financial review."

"I see," Sherlock said blandly. "And were I to ask Alec the same question, I presume his answer would be similar?"

Mr. Cunningham blustered, face going an even deeper shade of red, but it was Sally who cut in.

"That's enough! Outside. Now."

She rounded on him in the foyer. "I thought I made it clear that Mr. Cunningham is not, I repeat not a suspect here. You're completely off the mark, and it's affecting the investigation. For the last time, this was a _burglary_."

Sherlock's frustration finally erupted. "Dismissing viable theories in favor of your own, as of yet unproven scenario demonstrates even more lax investigative work than usual."

That one clearly hit the mark, as Sally went white with rage.

"What's the problem, then? Is a burglary turned murder not interesting enough for you? The Metropolitan Police Department is not your personal entertainment center, you bloody psychopath!"

"No, it's my most frequent client. Because of policemen such as yourself who use regimented and ineffective thought processes to get locked into a single theory and then miss what's right in front of them."

"It was a burglary, Sherlock. The burglars thought no one was home, and the girl surprised them. They panicked, pushed her down the stairs, and fled. It's sad and tragic, but it happens."

"Nothing was stolen!"

"Because they didn't have time to take anything before Billie came upon them."

"The reports from the first responders on the scene stated that all the doors and windows were locked, and Mrs. Cunningham stated quite clearly that she had to unlock the front door when the police arrived. I suppose the burglars relocked the door as they left? Very polite criminals, that."

Sally paused for a moment, frowning, but then shook her head.

"It doesn't negate the burglary theory. Mrs. Cunningham could be mistaken about the front door being locked, seeing as it was an obviously traumatic night for her. Most people would be unsettled after finding the body of someone they cared about."

"There are no signs of anyone fleeing across the lawn."

"Then they used the drive."

"The traffic cam on the main street would have picked them up. They had to have cut across the lawn and then gone over the fence to avoid it, but there were no footprints to be found."

"Then you must have missed them."

"I _didn't_."

"Clearly you did, because there is absolutely no reason for anyone to murder this girl: she had no enemies, no secrets, no history with the police, not even an outstanding traffic ticket. She was the victim of a senseless tragedy, and I'm sorry that isn't interesting enough for you, but you can go to Hell. You pick and choose cases that you want to lend your 'powers of deduction' to, as if average, everyday crimes and murders don't deserve to be solved. As if those victims don't matter. You make me ill."

"I am not a police inspector, Sergeant Donovan," Sherlock wheezed. He was beginning to have trouble drawing breath. "I am a consulting detective. It is my job to-" The tightness in his chest erupted in that moment, resulting in a violent coughing fit. He doubled over as a sharp, sudden pain clenched somewhere around his breastbone.

"Oh my god," he dimly heard Sally say as he gasped desperately for breath. "Are you-"

"I'm fine," he grated out, stumbling for the door. "I just need some air. The dust in this house is stifling."

He didn't wait for a response as he slammed the door behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

The cold, crisp air did help-though he immediately found himself shivering again, if, indeed, he had ever stopped-and he soon mastered his breathing.

The fact that the rattle in his chest was worse than before was irrelevant.

The temperature of the air was dropping even further as the autumn sun dipped lower on the horizon. It helped to cool his anger, and by the time he pushed into the park, he again felt calm.

She was still there. He felt he should have been more surprised by his lack of surprise (it had been almost seven hours after all), but the air seemed to have wrapped around him in a blanket, and in the end he only felt somewhat numb.

He didn't remember walking toward her, but then he was once again seated at her side, her face turned toward him as it had been that morning.

"Goodness, you look terrible," she gasped, looking worried. "Are you ill?"

She moved slowly, clearly telegraphing her movements as she lifted her hand and laid it on his forehead. He held still and let her.

The position reminded him immediately and achingly of his the times in his childhood when his mother had done the same. He had often gotten ill in the wintertime, being such a slight child, but the feel of her hand on his forehead had always felt like a blessing.

Like she could will away the illness, just through her touch and presence.

"You don't feel warm. But perhaps you should take some time to rest all the same."

He opened his eyes, not having realized he'd closed them. Her hand still rested gently on his forehead, and as they made eye contact, she smiled at him, moving it to slowly tuck an errant curl behind his ear. His breath caught in his throat, forming a ball of something nebulous made of equal parts emotion and memory.

It _ached_, and he felt a longing for something he wasn't able to express.

"Don't push yourself too hard," she said then. Her eyes were strangely intense, and her expression mournful as she stared up at him.

"I'm fine," he told her. And then again. "I'm fine."

He wondered vaguely who he was trying to convince.

* * *

When John found him, he was sitting in a heap on the pavement leaning against the wall outside the park with no memory of how he'd gotten there. Night had fallen completely, though from the small crowd of pedestrians who had gathered to watch, he could infer that that it wasn't too late yet.

He pushed John's hands away and climbed to his feet without assistance, ferociously steeling his legs and refusing to show how very weak he suddenly felt. He stretched and feigned a yawn for good measure.

"What took you so long?" he asked.

John was completely white-faced, but at this his expression went abruptly wrathful.

"You git! I've been looking everywhere for you? What the hell happened?"

Sherlock kept his face casual and calm. "I had a disagreement with Sergeant Donovan and went for a walk to clear my head. I didn't want to go back to the house, so I decided to wait here for you."

John gesticulated wildly. "And _how _was I supposed to know you were here? ESP?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I would have called, but you repossessed my phone."

John stared at him for a moment in consternation. "Get in the cab," he ordered at last through clenched teeth, gesturing to the vehicle idling next to the curb.

Sherlock did, noting as he did so that despite the temperature, he was no longer shivering.

* * *

John plied him with soup and tea once they arrived home. He did his very best to choke down enough of it to assuage his flatmate's worries, but his stomach was cold and knotted and wanted nothing to do with the reheated lentil soup he was attempting to put into it. After an hour (during which John watched him like a hawk through increasingly droopy eyes), he carried the tray to his room promising to force the rest down as much as he was able. Had John not been dead on his feet, he imagine he would not have been released from the kitchen.

The food rapidly went ice cold on his floor while he tossed and turned on the bed. He was on top of the blankets this time, the cool air of the flat now feeling cradling rather than uncomfortable.

He dreamt of his mother.

Her hair had been dark like his, but much silkier, falling into glossy waves about her shoulders that as a boy Sherlock had likened to ravens' wings.

He knew intellectually that her eyes had been blue, but he found his memory insufficient to remember their exact shade. The failure saddened him.

He found himself once again six years old and perched on the piano bench with his mother beside him as he painstakingly tapped out a melody from his primer. She was smiling, and when he played the song to completion she pulled him to her body and rested his head upon her heart.

"The bond between a mother and her child is indestructible," she said, but when he looked up at her, it wasn't his mother at all, but the woman from the park.

She smiled at his confusion and gently touched his cheek with pale fingers. The cold from her touch traveled all through his body, and-as he felt himself turning to ice-he wondered absurdly if he would be taken for an ice sculpture. And, if so, if it would one that John would like.

He woke at dawn and lay blinking up at the ceiling as all the clues slotted themselves together.

* * *

This time both Lestrade and Sally were awaiting their arrival at the Cunningham estate.

As he and John walked to join them at the front door, Sherlock was forced to stop as he was beset by yet another coughing fit. This time, the shudders racking his chest were extremely violent, and he pulled the cuffs of his coat over his hands like a child and used the fabric as an impromptu handkerchief.

There was a smear of blood left behind.

"Are you alright?" John asked in concern as he looked back toward him. He had been hovering all morning and was now poised as though he were prepared to walk to Sherlock and take his pulse or some other such doctorly nonsense. Sherlock reflexively straightened, turning his wrist so the dark smear of blood-black against the coat-was hidden against his side.

"I'm fine,' he said shortly.

Sally snorted, though she was unable to completely hide her concern, being an extremely empathetic individual who felt her emotions far too strongly. He would not have expected her empathy to extend to himself, but he found that he did not mind in the slightest. "You're far from fine, freak. Dragging us out this early in the morning. You'd better have something solid, or-sick or not-I will beat you before arresting your arse for harassment."

Sherlock didn't bother to answer. He knew Lestrade and John were expecting a biting retort, but he simply didn't have the energy to respond accordingly.

Instead he lifted his hand and knocked on the door, the booming sound echoing through the old building.

* * *

At Sherlock's insistence, they gathered the Cunningham family in the library. Much as during the earlier interviews, Alec leaned against the mantle while his father paced. Delia Cunningham was nervously perched on a settee while the elderly Mrs. Cunningham claimed an ornate chair near the window and sat herself regally.

Sally and Lestrade remained standing behind the settee, and Sherlock found himself in the center of the floor, John a warm and solid presence just behind his shoulder that lent him the strength to keep from swaying slightly. His head hurt, and his heart was fluttering too fast in his chest.

Sherlock cleared his throat to gather the attention of the room and simultaneously stifle a cough.

"The murder of Miss Billie Kirwan was committed by one of the people in this room," he said without preamble, then paused for response. He wasn't disappointed.

"Oh not this again," he heard Sally groan, though it was drowned out by the small shriek that Delia let out, followed immediately by a reprimand for her to contain herself from Mrs. Cunningham.

"Are you accusing my family of this heinous event, sir?" Edgar Cunningham blustered.

"Not all of them," Sherlock dryly. "On this occasion, there is only one murderer."

Lestrade looked automatically to Old Man Cunningham, eyes narrowing in suspicion, but Sherlock cut him off.

"No," he said. "That man is a reprobate, but he is not the one responsible for Miss Kirwan's murder."

The inspector looked confused, but it was John who spoke. "But I thought-" he trailed off as Sherlock turned slowly (almost regretfully) to Mrs. Cunningham.

The old woman sat proudly in the gilt framed chair, holding her cane at a precise ninety degree angle to the floor. Her cold blue eyes stared directly into Sherlock's own, but she said nothing.

Edgar Cunningham gasped with comprehension and came to his knees at her side, voice strangled. "Mother! What is he talking about? Tell him you didn't do this!"

She looked at her son sharply. "Oh do be quiet, you ninny! Your hysterics are quite without dignity. Get on your feet at once."

Sniffling and pale, he complied, locking his knees and swaying very slightly.

Alec simply looked uncomprehending. "Grandmother? You think my _grandmother _is the killer? That's ridiculous! What possible motive could she have had? For that matter, how could she even have done it? She's over seventy years old!"

"I'm afraid that it takes little physical strength to unbalance a person enough to fall down a precarious flight of stairs," Sherlock said calmly. "A swift knock with a blunt object, such as the cane Mrs. Cunningham is currently holding so protectively, would be more than enough."

"But the girl's head was smashed!" Alec argued. "Surely you don't believe my Grandmother could have done such a thing? It's absurd!"

"On the contrary, Mr. Cunningham, it is the most logical explanation. On the night in question, Mrs. Cunningham arranged to have Miss Kirwan meet her, most probably in her bedroom, though it is possible she intended from the beginning to lure her to the top of the stairs. When Miss Kirwan arrived, Mrs. Cunningham waited until an advantageous moment and then surprised her with a blow to the head from her cane, knocking her down the stairs and ultimately killing her."

"But why?" This from Sally, who despite her initial disbelief knew very well what Mrs. Cunningham's lack of denial meant for her guilt.

"Blackmail," Sherlock said simply. "Miss Kirwan was attempting to blackmail the Cunningham family, and Mrs. Cunningham was desperate to stop her. I believe it is likely that she first attempted to persuade or intimidate Miss Kirwan into backing down from the scheme but quickly found that she was unable to do so. Murder was an uncreative response, but an expedient one."

Before anyone could remark on the callousness of that statement, John spoke.

"What secret was she holding over their heads?" he asked, demonstrating his intuitive nature by then turning his gaze (correctly) to Edgar and Alec Cunningham.

"Cunningham Shipping and Export is in dire financial straights." Sherlock confirmed.

"Rather than face their lenders, Edgar and Alec Cunningham engineered a smuggling scheme whereby they would forge shipping manifestos to indicate that the ship was carrying more containers than their client had originally contracted to have transported. The owners of these containers-small business owners I would imagine, although there may be a smuggler or two among them-would pay the Cunninghams directly for the cost of transport, which they in turn would pocket."

Alec laughed weakly from where he was leaning white-faced against the mantle. "You have no proof. These are empty accusations."

Sherlock looked at him steadily. "Proof is exactly what this entire thing is about, isn't it? Somehow, one of the clients who was unknowingly paying to ship containers they had no connection to, got hold of one of your altered shipping manifestos. Fearing that upon review they would note the discrepancy, you staged a burglary in order to swap out the manifesto for one with the original numbers. I am referring, of course, to the Acton burglary, where your ineptitude at thievery made it apparent that there was more to that crime than a simple burglary. No self respecting burglar would steal a ball of twine, two candlesticks, and a volume of Homer."

Alec simply looked befuddled. "I-, you're wrong."

"I am not wrong, and I'm certain a careful audit of your records will support this. There should have been no more to this than a simple financial crime, until Billie Kirwan discovered the scheme and foolishly tried to profit from it."

"But how?" Edgar's voice was plaintive. "She'd have no way of knowing. None of the files ever even left the office." He didn't seem to note the implied confession, but from Lestrade's raised eyebrow at his question, it was clear that he did.

"Did you on occasion speak of your business while at home?"

"Well, yes," Edgar replied, "but never when Miss Kirwan was present."

"Did you most commonly speak of it in this room?"

"Yes."

"Perhaps while leaning against the mantle as you are doing now?"

"…Yes."

Sherlock nodded without surprise. "Then it will not surprise you to learn that the flue of the chimney you are leaning against leads directly to Miss Kirwan's room, and that it carries voices surprisingly well."

"Of course!," John said as comprehension dawned. "The ghosts that the investigators thought they heard so long ago. It was the sound of those in the library echoing up the shaft." He looked at Sherlock with open admiration, causing a little flutter in Sherlock's chest that had nothing to do with the chill that had seemed to have settled there permanently.

"Miss Kirwan approached Mrs. Cunningham with what she knew, threatening exposure of the scam if she wasn't given a cut of the profits. Mrs. Cunningham must have felt-correctly I would imagine-that the risk of Miss Kirwan revealing the secret was high, even with the application of money to still her tongue. Rather than allow her family's name to be slandered, and unable to persuade Miss Kirwan to abandon the plot, she chose a more mercenary approach to the problem."

At the reminder of the young life cut short far too soon, the room once again sobered, all eyes turning toward Mrs. Cunningham where she was still sitting silent in her chair.

She made no move at the scrutiny, returning Sherlock's gaze with a cool, unrelenting stare of her own. Her face showed no remorse for that which she had been accused of.

"You will not find any incriminating documents in either this house nor the business office, Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Cunningham said suddenly, her gaze cold and steady. "There is nothing _to _find. I made sure of it."

Sherlock looked at her appraisingly, a dark part of him impressed with her unflinching commitment.

"I am certain you did, madam," he said quietly. "In my experience, mothers will go to unimaginable lengths for their sons. I would have expected nothing less."

John was looking at him with concern, the most common expression in regards to Sherlock during this case, but this time unprompted by a coughing fit. It made something catch in Sherlock's throat to realize that John knew him well enough to recognize when he was affected by emotion (well, as affected as he ever was).

But there was work that remained to be done, so Sherlock waved him off and shook off his unexpected melancholy feelings at the motivation of the murder.

"Well, Lestrade, Donovan?" he asked with a raised eyebrow as he gestured toward the family matriarch. "Fulfill your roles."

The glares he received before the DI began the familiar arresting statements almost made him smile.

* * *

Mrs. Cunningham only spoke once after the initial arrest, requesting that her son call the family solicitor to meet them at the Met. Sherlock leaned against the wall outside the estate as he watched Lestrade and Sally pulling away.

It wasn't yet mid-morning, but Sherlock was completely exhausted, and he closed his eyes briefly as he rested against the cold stone. His entire body was heavy and weighted, yet his head was spinning dizzily as though preparing to take flight. He felt as though he were being pulled in two.

All of a sudden a hand was pressed tightly against his forehead. He opened his eyes in shock and automatically attempted to recoil, but stopped when he realized who was touching him.

John was standing in front of him frowning contemplatively as though laying his hand on Sherlock's forehead was completely expected behavior in their relationship. "No fever. You're certain you have no symptoms besides the cough? No dizziness or nausea?"

He was standing incredibly close. There was, at best, thirty centimetres between them. It was reminiscent of the situation he had found himself in with his companion in the park, but the feeling it prompted inside of him was much, much different.

Sherlock realized he was holding his breath and forced himself to exhale and breathe normally.

"No," he answered belatedly. "No, just the cough."

"Well you look terrible," John said ruefully. "Now that the case is over, I insist that you go to bed immediately and stay there. Maybe watch the telly while I fetch us some hot and sour soup. It should be good for your throat."

Sherlock was horrified to feel his eyes start to prickle. He turned abruptly away in case any physical manifestation of his exhaustion and uncharacteristic emotion should be visible.

"That sounds nice," he said faintly.

"Now I'm really worried, given that 'nice' is hardly a word I expect to hear from you," John said, voice dry (though his eyes telegraphed the truth of the statement). "Let me fetch my coat, and we'll catch a cab."

He walked off purposefully, leaving the area around Sherlock colder and darker for his absence. Sherlock closed his eyes, regretting more than he could express that he wasn't able to join John at once.

But Billie Kirwan's murderer hadn't been the only revelation he had had the night before, and there was something he had to do.

He slipped off the property without being noticed.

* * *

The rusted gate swung open to his touch, the way it had the last few days, and through the gap he could see her sitting poised gracefully on the park bench.

As he walked toward her, John's words echoed in his memory with acute detail: the inflection of his voice, the concern writ transparent across his face. There was no artifice in John, he mused. It was one of countless things Sherlock adored about him.

_It's just that I don't want you to come across something you've never seen before...never considered, and be caught unawares._

He wondered, distractedly, why it had taken him so long to work out what was going on. The cough syrup John had plied him with must have slowed his thinking. Such a lapse in deduction was unacceptable.

He stopped in front of her. The frigid wind whipped around them, kicking his scarf and hair into a riotous dance.

She looked up at him, eyes kind and sad, but she did not smile.

"Won't you sit?" she asked, tilting her head to the side slightly.

Sherlock looked down to the ground. Her shoes were white dainty things that she had tucked under the bench slightly. The leaves skirted around her feet in the breeze, merrily dancing within a set orbit about her.

She had no shadow.

_I just don't want you to get hurt._

"I can't visit you anymore," Sherlock said slowly. "There's someone waiting for me. I'm so sorry, but I-"

"I understand," she interrupted, now smiling gently. Her eyes were tear filled. Perhaps it was for that reason that they suddenly appeared blue, rather than the shade of gray that Sherlock had been certain they were. "You don't belong here. I-, I've been so lonely, but that is no excuse. I should never have asked you to meet me. It was my selfishness."

"Not yours alone," he responded. "Thank you. Thank you for allowing me to share your solitude for a time."

She shook her head at his words. "Do not thank me. You are a good boy. Such a good soul. You deserve a life far better than one of loneliness. Though I shall miss you terribly."

She closed her eyes then, and the tears that had been building up tracked down her face, leaving ice in their wake. "Please forgive me."

"Always," Sherlock choked out, unable to lift his voice above a whisper when faced with her grief.

"Sherlock!" John called from somewhere over the fence. He sounded near frantic, and Sherlock turned automatically toward the gate. "Here, John!" he called back.

When he looked back to the park bench, she was gone.

He was still standing there, staring at the empty bench when John found him.

"Is this running off without word to anyone some sort of new habit I should be aware of? Are you mad, or are you trying to drive yourself to pneumonia?"

"I'm sorry," Sherlock responded immediately, stopping him short.

John looked flummoxed by the uncharacteristic apology and walked toward him more slowly, as though afraid of spooking him.

The irony of the thought made Sherlock smile.

"Hey, are you alright?" John asked, gently touching Sherlock's shoulder as he reached him. His fingers were blessedly warm, and Sherlock couldn't help but lean into him slightly. Didn't even try to stop himself. For the first time in days, the block of ice that had been resting in his chest began to melt.

"I'm fine," he said truthfully.

"Well, that's good then," John said doubtfully, turning them toward the gate. "But you're not in any state to be standing out here in this weather. You'll be no good to anyone if you keel over."

"I'd still be good to you," Sherlock said, smiling as he allowed John to lead him out of the park. "I am rather certain that I'll always be good to you."

John blushed deeply and cast his eyes away in embarrassment, but he kept his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and tightened his grip.

"Yes, well then," John said, clearing his throat. "Home?" Sherlock swung the gate open gallantly by way of response.

And together they stepped back out into the bustle of London.

Fin


End file.
